by C. L. Stone
“Mr. Coleman,” Mr. Blackbourne said, who had been standing by silently as Mr. Buble was taking the lead on this. He had his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the wall near the table.
“Sorry,” Gabriel said. “I just mean… If that’s the only risk, that Sang gets…”
“Miss Sorenson risks being taken in by police and taken to her parents,” Mr. Blackbourne said gently. “If brought to her home by the police, her parents will likely make it much more difficult for her to come back to us. I appreciate your view on the topic, but we’re still in the middle of a heated divorce between her parents, with our own lawyers, and this would make it much more complicated.”
I blinked rapidly, and without thinking, blurted, “Call them.”
Mr. Blackbourne looked to me, as did the others.
“If I’m the only one… if… I’m the one in the way…” I said quietly, “why should we risk more for this?”
“We can’t,” Mr. Blackbourne said.
“Volto has manipulated all of us, until it’s nearly killed us. If the answer is to call the police and they capture Volto, both of them, and I only go back to my parents… We can risk it. We can’t risk doing this anymore.”
“You’re not going back,” Kota said, half standing from his spot at the other head of the table. He looked right at Mr. Buble. “That can’t happen.”
“Fucking right,” Gabriel said. “Forget what I said. I wasn’t thinking.”
There was a calamity of voices all at once.
I sighed. I didn’t like the conundrum this was. Being caught in the middle. This could have been over by now.
I’d survived my parents. I could do it again.
I would fight them all. I would never risk Victor or anyone else again.
A hand suddenly caught mine, and I realized it was Mr. Buble, reaching across to get my attention among all the other voices.
At this, the others quieted, looking right at us.
Mr. Buble looked right into my eyes and gently squeezed my good hand. “Self-sacrifice is not necessary, although your unselfishness is an admirable quality. While willingness to do the right thing is an exceptionally fine attitude to have for an Academy member, we would never risk anyone one ounce of unpleasantness if it can be helped. It is not your fault what happened to Victor.”
I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t cry, though I felt tears. I nodded.
He continued to hold on to me as he looked to the others. “Let’s focus on this Rocky and Jay and the others that had been at the scene and do everything we can to get to the heart of who Volto is… both of them. We were thrown off before with the duality, but now we know better.”
My heart raced, perhaps this wasn’t totally the right move, but wanting to trust the others that I didn’t have to go back.
But could we survive with two Voltos lurking around?
Mr. Buble glanced in my direction, as well as nodding at Dr. Green. “I assume you’re not too hurt?”
I shook my head, although I was a bit groggy and worried about being sore like Dr. Green suggested.
“Then you might come with me,” he said, standing up. He motioned to Mr. Blackbourne. “And this time, you should come along.”
Mr. Blackbourne had been standing by, looking on as the others talked. He immediately stood taller. He was impeccable, as always, with his gray suit and maroon tie, only it was all wrinkled, and it took his moving away for me to realize that was the case. He’d been up all night. “Of course.”
“The rest of you,” Mr. Buble said, “get organized. We’ve still got a to-do list.”
“If you’re going for Victor, I’d like to go,” North said darkly.
Mr. Buble turned to him. “We’ve got it from here.”
“But… I need to,” North said, now speaking more through his teeth.
Mr. Buble moved away from me and approached North. He said gently, “You know it’s not your fault either.”
North didn’t say anything. He only glared at him, ignoring the others completely.
“I need to,” he said.
Mr. Buble placed a hand on his shoulder. “We must all play our part. You did your best, and you might be needed if we fail. But only if we do.”
North said nothing further, but he nodded shortly. He turned away from the others and left the room.
I wondered why he looked so miserable, that maybe he felt some guilt, perhaps for being the one to ask Victor to drive to go get me.
Niente
(Nothing, barely audible, dying away)
Victor
Everything changed so much, that by morning, Victor felt he’d dreamed it all.
Was Mr. Buble really there?
He was still angry. Mostly at himself.
Was he in Europe now?
The pain of his face ebbed, came back, faded.
The doctor had said he needed surgery on his face.
When he opened his eyes, he was in his own bed. There was a tightness at his face, and a throbbing at the back of his head started the moment he shifted to look around the room.
Why did everything hurt so bad?
Why was he home?
Someone was standing by, a woman in blue scrubs. She approached him. He didn’t recognize her. “How are you feeling, Victor?”
“Who…” He breathed. He suddenly remembered the hospital. They had stitched his nose, examined him, given him medicines.
The groggy effect was strong in him.
Within moments, he seemed to doze again.
When he woke, the nurse was at his piano, idly opening pages that had been sitting on top.
She was talking to herself. “What a clever kid. Able to write music. A sonata? This requiem? No title. No lyrics.”
Victor breathed in sharply. He didn’t like the woman picking through his things, especially the music. It was something no one ever looked at or noticed.
When he got stuck at his home, waiting for concerts, he often dabbled with lines of music, writing down random notes on blank music sheets. No real reason. Mostly boredom while he had to wait for so long.
He started to say something, but choked quickly, his throat very dry.
The nurse jolted on the piano bench, dropping the pages, a couple scattering to the floor.
She came over, looking at him. “Oh good. You are awake now?”
He hadn’t realized he was attached to an IV bag until now, suddenly feeling the needle as he lifted his hand to her. He coughed again. “Water,” he said.
She brought over just a small paper cup of ice chips. “Try this for now. You don’t want to vomit while your face is healing. Let’s move slowly.”
He took in an ice chip, and the wetness stung the inside of his throat that he choked on it.
She nodded and took the cup away. “Careful.”
He swallowed hard several times, soaking in the wetness from the chip.
“Do you know where you are?” she asked him.
He nodded. His own bedroom. Not in the hospital.
“Do you remember what happened?”
He nodded again. Mostly. Sort of. How did he get here?
She left him and went to a case sitting near the piano. She brought it over and performed a short examination, something Dr. Green had done similarly to him more than enough to know the routine. Pulse, checked for fever.
When she was done, she smiled at him. “Don’t move, okay?”
He wasn’t sure he could. The medicine was strong.
Should he be here?
His mother. She’d said something about getting him out of the country. The doctor said he couldn’t go. They don’t normally allow people out of the hospital while still unconscious.
“How…” he whispered.
With a puzzled gaze, she sat next to him on the bed. “Try again?”
Victor smothered the urge to grumble. Flashes of his mother at the hospital came to him. He remem
bered the crash and Sang being pulled from the car, but parts of it were still a blur, like waking up in the ambulance, his mother insisting the doctor call the surgeon to fix his nose. The conversation about sending Victor to Europe. Her demands for different doctors. He even remembered waking up on his back in the surgery room, and the pull of string against his nose, although at that point his face was numb.
Lost in a mess of memories, Victor fell asleep again.
And woke again shortly. He didn’t want to sleep more.
His mother would have insisted he stay at home and not at the hospital. He imagined it was not for his health, but to salvage whatever reputation she could. And if she got the opportunity, she’d fly him off perhaps.
Victor tried to talk.
Mr. Buble. He’d left him. DepthCrawler.
They could have taken him from the hospital.
They knew how.
But they wouldn’t. They didn’t. They left him. And soon, his parents might have him on that flight they wanted him on. A private plane would take him anywhere.
He almost thought he should go. He almost risked Sang’s life. Was she hurt? They promised…
They said she wasn’t. That she was fine.
Was she?
Was she safe around him? He’d almost killed her.
Her face.
Upside down.
He sobbed, the memory too strong for him to handle.
The nurse peered down at him and gently touched his arm. “If you need to sleep, sleep.” She shifted. He was pretty sure the nurse put more medicine into the IV.
After a few minutes, he didn’t have a choice.
He never had a choice.
Aria
(Self-contained piece for one voice usually with orchestral accompaniment)
Sang
After I got some better clothes on, we were in Mr. Blackbourne’s BMW, the one that had been recovered. It seemed back to normal, the VIN back into the dash without any indication that it had been traded.
Mr. Buble insisted I sit in the front seat while Mr. Blackbourne drove.
“Get comfortable,” he said to me as he held the door open. “And be ready.”
“For what?”
“You’ll have to fill in if I fail.”
I wasn’t sure what we were going to do, but I sat on my good hand to stop it from shaking, and pressed my fractured hand to my body.
I wasn’t totally sure I wouldn’t fall asleep on the ride.
Along the way, when there was a pause in the conversation as Mr. Buble went over what happened the other night with details he heard from Gabriel and North as well, I asked. “Weren’t we supposed to lay low and let Volto think we weren’t doing anything?”
“I felt that way,” Mr. Buble said from the back seat. “Until he… we’re assuming it’s him still… invaded the Griffin house. Among other incidents.”
“It’s what our team has dealt with for a while now,” Mr. Blackbourne spoke as he drove, never moving his eyes from the road, and always keeping his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. “We get quiet, he shows up. We’re in action, he shows up. There’s not much of a difference, and despite when we’ve thought we had some high ground, he manages to evade being discovered each time.”
“There’s another option, however,” Mr. Buble said. “What happens if we removed some people? Perhaps even further out of reach? We could try, at least for a while.”
Mr. Blackbourne slowly nodded and continued to focus on driving.
Removed people.
Moved them away.
Who? Me?
Part of me didn’t want to ask. Not right now. Instead, out the window, the scenery changed, drifting by as the car rolled along. The interior smelled of spring soap, and now another scent carried, another type of soap, maybe lavender or lilac, I wasn’t sure but it was flowery of some sort. I wondered if it was from Mr. Buble. I hadn’t been so close, not without a mixture of scents to make it too difficult to identify if he carried any, but it was noticeable now.
It was several miles before I finally realized we were headed downtown and in the direction of the Morgan estate.
I turned to Mr. Blackbourne. “Are we going to Victor’s house?” I asked.
He nodded slowly.
“We’re taking a risk,” Mr. Buble said, gazing out the side window. “I understand this is what this group does.”
“You’re fitting in pretty well,” Mr. Blackbourne said to him.
I turned to look at Mr. Buble. He didn’t look back at me, but he was smiling at the window. As strict as I’d thought of him, an older man with such a particular way about him, now it felt comfortable to have him around. It wasn’t totally clear if it was simply because he was with the Academy, but for the last week or so getting to know him, he seemed much different than who I’d felt he was before.
He followed the rules, but he was willing to dive into the fight. He was willing to take a risk.
I noticed, now, how he had a change in coloration around his face. Around one eye. A black eye? Sort of. A mark where his glasses had smashed against his face? After a punch?
He was wearing makeup.
He did fit in with us.
We didn’t go directly to the gate, but a block away, at a spot Mr. Blackbourne knew the security team couldn’t see in their cameras. We couldn’t show we were together, not right now, apparently.
I looked intently at the large house a short distance away, the yellow exterior with the white trim. I’d been at the house a lot lately, always unwelcomed by Mrs. Morgan.
I couldn’t imagine she’d be happy to see me.
“Hopefully this won’t take long,” Mr. Buble said. He got out of the car, smoothed his hands over his clothes, and took with him a clipboard and a folder. “Time to put our Mr. Morgan out of his misery… so to speak.”
It was the way he said our that made me feel his determination. He wouldn’t stop trying to protect Victor.
He wouldn’t stop no matter what.
I sat still in the passenger seat, confused at his words. When Mr. Buble walked off toward the large yellow house, I kept an eye on him as I asked Mr. Blackbourne, “What is he doing?”
“Giving Victor what he wants,” Mr. Blackbourne said. “And freeing the Morgans of their problems. If they choose to accept, at least.” He gazed at me. “He’s been asking for you all night, it seems. You’re here in case he needs you to think clearly.”
“Think clearly?”
“There’s a choice left to make. The same choice Victor’s always had a difficult time making.”
My heart surged. I immediately turned to the door. “I’ll go now.”
Mr. Blackbourne held on to my arm. “Wait,” he said.
I hesitated, because he was so direct, despite my desperation to go help Victor.
“Let Mr. Buble handle it.”
“But…”
Mr. Blackbourne released my arm and gently spoke. “I know there’s some issue in the group about trusting Mr. Buble, but I hoped after sending him to be more involved with all of you, that you all would have learned to trust him more.”
“We do…”
“He is Academy, after all.”
I nodded and forced myself to remain in the car, sitting back, watching Mr. Buble enter the house alone.
“Are you sure this is the right decision?” I asked Mr. Blackbourne quietly. “His parents could force him to stay.”
“He’s not a prisoner. Victor’s place is with us.”
“So why do you say it’s a choice?”
“Because he’s also not our prisoner,” Mr. Blackbourne said. “Family is a choice.”
“The last time I was here, they were so convincing, trying to tell him he risked exposing me if I stayed with him or if he came with us.”
“That’s still true,” he said. “And will be true while the media has its day with dramatically covering what’s happened to him l
ately.”
That was true. He was in the car by himself and there would be news covering it for a while. The news… it’d likely expose him as some teenager who was rebelling against his parents, drinking at his birthday, crashing the car, driving while under the influence. “He’ll get charged? He’ll be arrested?”
“He won’t escape a trial,” Mr. Blackbourne said quietly. “Although community service could be traded for any jail time for a first offense.”
My heart seized. “No…” What if it didn’t work? A judge could say anything. And he’d be gone. In jail. For how long? And community service? It wasn’t his fault.
Mr. Blackbourne reached to me, collecting my hands this time and holding to them strong. “We know the truth,” he said. “We know what happened, and Mr. Buble is going in to try to remedy this situation as best as he can. This is what he does.”
“Mr. Buble does this?”
“He’s a child advocate, a foster parent, and presents himself as a few other things. But in this case, he’s the answer to their problems, unless they say no for reasons we couldn’t imagine. But let’s trust Mr. Buble can handle it.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
His thumbs smoothed over the back of my hands, massaging gently. “We’re next. And if we don’t work, we send Mr. Lee. And if he doesn’t work, we have more. Whoever it takes.”
There was no doubt in those steel eyes that looked me over. “You want him out?”
“I want us together,” he said. “It’s everything I’ve worked for.”
I had to give Mr. Buble a chance. His parents might not want him there, but Victor would have to choose.
So I waited with Mr. Blackbourne, in the car, ready. I wasn’t sure what I’d say even if I had to go in, but I assumed Mr. Blackbourne had a plan, or maybe it depended on what happened with Mr. Buble.
I’d wait.
I’d wait for Victor. And I firmly believed no one on the team would rest until he was with us again.
I wouldn’t rest until I could get to him and confess.
I did love him. I wouldn’t be afraid to tell him next time.
A Bene Placito
